


Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is

by Scarleystars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sneedronningen | The Snow Queen - Hans Christian Andersen
Genre: Gen, snow queen!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarleystars/pseuds/Scarleystars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One must have a mind of winter<br/>To regard the frost and the boughs<br/>Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; </p><p>And have been cold a long time<br/>To behold the junipers shagged with ice,<br/>The spruces rough in the distant glitter </p><p>Of the January sun; and not to think<br/>Of any misery in the sound of the wind,<br/>In the sound of a few leaves, </p><p>Which is the sound of the land<br/>Full of the same wind<br/>That is blowing in the same bare place </p><p>For the listener, who listens in the snow,<br/>And, nothing himself, beholds<br/>Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. </p><p>-Wallace Stevens</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first story: Which Treats of a Mirror and of the Splinters

John Hamish Watson was sat at his grandmother’s feet, half-draped in the blanket she had knitted the winter before. He listened to her lilting voice as she told him the story he had begged her for many a night without tiring; “Listen well, my dear John, once upon a time the sprites of the air discovered a wicked, wicked mirror, that distorted all who looked upon it into ugliness……….”

* * *

“-and they say that the Snow King gathered up his white bees and sent them out to the sprites and whisked them away, up, up into the sky!” John leant out of his window as far as he could, gesturing wildly to the prim boy in the other side who was trying, and failing to pretend he wasn’t interested. John was not perturbed. He knew the other boy only  _sounded_ as prickly as the summer thistle.

“but as the sprites got higher, and higher, and the air got colder and colder, the sprites got sleepier and sleepier, and soon, their fingers stopped working, and the mirror slipped-“ John illustrated his point by letting go of the sill and tumbling into the window box. He wasn’t supposed to, but he knew even if it couldn’t take his weight, the fresh snow underneath would break his fall. That didn’t stop the other boy from shouting in alarm until John’s head poked up -cheeks as rosy as ever- still telling the story;

“and shattered into a million million pieces! Falling down to the earth in slivers so tiny no one could see them. Some fell on the ground, and people coveted them, making them into eyeglasses, and saw nothing but ugliness all around them. Some fell like the snow, and people stared up, blinking foolishly at them, and they unknowingly blinked the slivers into the corner of their eyes where they travelled through their capitar-caterpi-capillaries” (he sounded out the word with immense concentration, as only a boy of ten can)

“and their hearts were like stone forever more. And they say the Snow King, upset that his mirror had been broken, roared in frustration and sent out his white bees to scour the land for any of the pieces and a person clever enough to put them back together, aaaand that’s why it’s always snowy here.”

He finished the story matter-of-factly, smiling at the other boy’s obvious frown. The Holmes family rarely visited this particular part of the country, for all they kept the house all year round, so when they did decide to come, John made sure to spend as much time with the boy in the other window as possible. Sherlock may not have enjoyed sledging, or snowman building, or anything John considered _fun_ at all, but John liked him, and liked to tell him stories, and he knew Sherlock liked listening to them. Sometimes, he hopped across the small gap between their houses and they read Sherlock’s many many books in silence, sometimes they snuck down the stairs and played ‘who can stay hidden the longest whilst trying to steal Mycroft’s sweets’ and sometimes, when the snow was too fierce that they kept their shutters closed, they looked through the peepholes Sherlock had made with hot farthings and blinked at each other in Morse code.

Once, John was listening to the sound of the wind, rattle around the houses, through the thin streets, and unpinned shutters bang bang banging and creaking with every gust.  
He couldn’t sleep. He was twelve years old. His gran had succumb to the cold two bells prior, and whilst Sherlock was visiting, he still felt the ache of loneliness that an older sister and acerbic best friend could not fill.  
And talking of Sherlock, over the wind, he thought he could hear his friend’s voice! But did he dare cross the wide void between his warm cosy bed and the peephole just to assuage curiosity? No. He thought. I’ll ask him in the morning.  
“The Pale Lady asks me questions.” Sherlock told him three days later, the next time they spoke. “She asks about my studies, gives me puzzles to solve, and she glides in the storm –like she’s flying through the snowflakes! She tells the most wonderful stories.” John had never seen Sherlock look like that whilst talking about someone. “But _I_ tell you stories.” John complained, jealously boiling in his heart. “Yes yes, John. Come on. Let’s go spy on Harry’s new girlfriend. I saw her with the baker’s girl yesterday. I want to see how this plays out.”

 

* * *

It wasn’t until John was sixteen that he saw his friend again, and when Sherlock returned to the town, he was much different. “How dull your small little mind must be!” He complained as John tried to tell him about his year. “As dull as your appearance.” They no longer played any more. No games, or reading, or spying on Harry. “Oh why would I want to do _that_? It’s clear that she’s cheating on Clara with-“  
“yes. Okay, I get it. Stupid idea” John interrupted with gritted teeth “what _do_ you want to do then?” Sherlock flicked his hair out of his eyes;  
“Well. Whatever I do, you’ll be a drag, you’ll slow me down so don’t follow me.” All John could do was watch as his best friend turned around swiftly, and stalked out into the storm.  
By the time he heard Sherlock talking to the Pale Lady for the third night in a row, he knew what had happened: the Pale Lady had taunted him, insulting his intelligence, daring him to do something impossible. The Pale Lady given him a piece of glass from the Snow King’s mirror, and Sherlock, the fool, had taken it eagerly.  
But the next day, when he went to make it right, Sherlock was gone. All that was left, were open shutters and a window box full of snow.


	2. The Second Story: Of the Attic At the Woman's Who Understood Witchcraft

John did not give up. He told anyone who would listen that the Pale Lady had stolen his friend, to take him to the Snow King, to get him to reassemble the mirror.  
“Don’t be silly,” said Harry, “he’s gone to boarding school”  
“A lady made of snow? That’s scientifically impossible” said Mycroft. “He’ll reappear in a few days. I’m sure he’s just looking into the heating properties of caves in a storm.”  
No one listened.  
So he packed a bag. If no one would rescue Sherlock Holmes, then he’d just have to do it himself.

John’s bag contained: a torch, some spare clothes, sensible boots, a knife, hairbrush, and some of Mycroft’s cakes. He also packed his grandfather’s medals: his most prized possession in the world. He’d not even shown them to Sherlock yet, even though he’d desperately wanted to, but since Sherlock had intaken the sliver of glass, he’d be scared of what his friend would say about them.

He started at the river. Sherlock’s little boat was still moored there, tied to the same log.  
“Oh little boat.” John sighed. “If only you could take me to him. I’d give away my grandfather’s medals to find him before it’s too late.”

The boat creaked invitingly, rocking gently with the lapping waves, and John thought he saw something hidden in the furthest corner, so he clambered in.  
Suddenly the rope mooring the boat snapped like a whip and John was sent sprawling to the floor as the boat careened down the river further and further away from everything he knew.  
“Oh mercy!” John cried, hugging his knees to his chest. His rucksack had fallen overboard the moment he’d been thrown; “oh how will I ever find my way back or find my black-haired friend now?” but soon the tremors of the tumultuous waves ceased, and John heard the swallows singing to ease his fear. It was the song of spring, and the boy realised the trees he could see were no longer covered in snow; when he looked over the side of the boat, he saw the banks were green and flowering, and as the boat sailed, he saw cherry trees and cows, and felt less afraid. ‘Maybe this little boat will carry me to Sherlock.’ He thought, and he felt slightly better.

After hours had passed, he saw a cottage adorned in flowers of every hue. And as he got closer, a figure appeared on the bank.  
“Hoy!” said the woman “how did you get embroiled on such a river!” and the woman threw out a rope and helped him get to shore. “Oh you poor thing. Tell me where you have come from and who you are.” She introduced herself as Sarah and fetched him a hot chocolate and sat him in the comfiest chair of the whole cottage.  
So John told the woman his story of window boxes, peepholes, and the cruel snow. Then he asked the woman if she had seen the Pale Lady or his good friend Sherlock and she h-ummed and ahh-ed and said she had not, but that they were bound to come through this way sooner or later, and would he like to stay with her until they did? The woman had often wished for a companion like John, and whilst she knew of the Arts, she was kindly, but her wishing was so terribly powerful and she’d wanted a companion for so long. John began to forget his friend and the journey that had led him to the woman and her cottage. The woman had taken pains to vanish all the books that she thought would reawaken his thoughts of the pale quest of his, and so he stayed with the woman until the autumn chill descended.

One day John was exploring the attic when he found a letter, it was a letter the woman had forgotten, one that talked of the harshness of winter and keeping shutters closed. He heard the swallows singing, and John suddenly remembered the peepholes he would communicate with Sherlock through, and the thought hit him like a ton of bricks.  
“I have tarried here too long!” he lamented, “how could I forget the very reason that led me here? And autumn has come already, oh I must find my friend.” And before another thought could go through his head, he fled the house and the woman.


	3. The Third Story: The Prince and Princess

He walked and walked and walked, unknowing which direction to take. "How shall I find Sherlock now?" he cried to the trees, who swayed that they did not know. "Have you seen him?" he asked the clouds, but they hurried past, not wanting to be caught in answering.  
“You should try the castle.” Finally said a Raven perched on a rock. “I say, do you speek Raven? This would be much easier if you did.”  
John shook his head, “my friend Sherlock could, and gibberish and dragon too! But please, Raven, tell me why should I go to the castle?”

 “Hmm well then, listen carefully, because there’s all sorts of menfolk there. My husband, Mr Stamford told me so. For the Princess has been seeking a marriage to someone as clever as the wind, and not at all put off by the splendour of her castle.”  
“Do you think Sherlock might be there?” John asked, full of hope, “he is so very clever.”  
“He might, my husband said she found her love in a pale boy, dressed in black, who wandered up to the castle and was not perturbed by the pinkness of the castle, or the cats that the Princess dotes upon, and he passed her tests, so he must be very clever and they are to be married.”  
“Oh yes!” said John, not convinced about the whole Sherlock marrying a princess thing, but happy that he was close to finding his friend, nonetheless, “that sounds very much like him! I must see him at once”  
The Raven looked him up and down and hummed. “Well the guards would not let you past the gates looking like that. But fear not, if you desire to see your friend that much, I shall have my love show you the secret entrance so you shall.”

Indeed, that very night saw John opening the secret Palace door and sneaking through to the Princess’ bedchambers: there were indeed many cats lying about the place, and the Princess’ bed was a flattering shade of pink. There in the middle, John looked on in dismay, was not Sherlock, but another pale and clever boy.

In his sadness, John knocked over a royal candle, and the princess awoke with a start.  
“Who are you?” she asked, elbowing her fiancé so he too could witness the young man in their bedroom “and what are you doing here? You don’t look like a robber, not that I suppose there is a particular look for robbers. Well, I suppose you could be, are you here to rob us?”

John sniffed, trying to keep his composure as he told his story to the princess and her (now awake) fiancé. The princess was so moved, she told him she would help him on his quest, and gave him a horse as black as night in a saddle of burnished gleaming gold, fur lined clothes and a pack full of only the best necessities for his journey “for everyone should feel as happy as I do at this moment.” She told him as he went on his way. “and if this friend if yours makes you as happy as my Tom does me, then all will be right with the world.”


	4. The Fourth Story: The Bearded Police Man

 As John road along the road, once again seeking his dark haired friend Sherlock, the sun’s rays shone on the saddle and bridle like the sun itself had come down to decorate his horse. The local constabulary happened to be in the area to spy john’s dazzling visage, and decide that it was a road hazard that might distract other road users.  
And so, the Yarders (as they called themselves) set out to apprehend John. John was terrified, having never been in trouble of this ilk before, for the police were hardly ever needed in his little winter town, and pulled out the dagger the princess had given him, thinking that he was being set upon by thieves.

“Assaulting an officer of the law, eh? We’ll arrest you for that.” Said one fiery woman as her fellows dragged him from his horse and threw him face down onto the dirt “you’ll be spending a few weeks in the cells then.” Never before had john felt so helpless, stripped of all his new finery and marched into a sparse cell with no way of escape.  
Over the next few days, all of the Yarders visited his ‘quarters’ some harsh, some kind. He was forced to retell his story over and over in the form of a ‘statement’, as none of them believed that the Princess had given him all that finery. “You stole it from her, more likely”. Said the fierce lady, snorting, before locking him back in his cell. “this friend of yours is probably made up to justify your loitering and suspicious activity” But that night, he had a visitor late in the evening, when all the other Yarders had gone to sleep, drunk on victories of apprehended serial killers and master thief gangs.

“Pssst.” Whispered a voice in the shadows. John looked about, but he could not tell where the voice was coming from.  
“I believe in Sherlock Holmes” it continued. “I believe you were telling the truth, and if you want to find your friend, I’ll shall do something for you.”  
John was in such a state at hearing someone believed him, that he was struck mute, and the voice carried on. “We’ve heard stories, you see, about the Snow King’s summer palace in Finland -or Lapland, or somewhere close by, it’s hard to tell what’s myth and what’s not- but we just so happen to have an old reindeer who would willingly guide you there. We call him the Detective Inspector. Although I’ve heard others call him Greg. And he’s been nagging me for days to help you.”  
It was then that the voice revealed itself into a person. Hidden behind an odd looking beard, Anderson peered through the bars of John’s cell and then made quick work of the lock. Opening the door he looked at the boy.  
“Well? Are you going or not? I can’t feign ignorance of an unlocked door forever. And Mrs Hudson won’t keep hers unlocked for long either, so you better get to her fast.”

That spurred John out of the uncomfortable prison. Thanking Anderson on his way out, he then went to the stables and met Greg the reindeer who would take him to Mrs Hudson’s on their trip to Lapland.


	5. The Fifth Story: The Lapland Woman and the Finland Man

“It’s my home, you see.” Told Greg as they made their way north. Before I went into the police force, I was born in these parts. Used to know every nook and cranny around here I did. Mrs Hudson’s a lovely woman” he told John as they plodded through the grove of fir trees. “Course she’s got a bit of a dodgy past, ran away from her husband’s career in crime and all. But a lovely woman. Makes the best tea in the whole of Lapland.”

They were greeted at the door by the smell of cookies baking. “Hoo hoo!” said their hostess “come in, get warm, rest those legs of yours!” the house was small but comfortable, and john quickly sank into one of the nearby wingback chairs the moment he slipped off Greg’s back.  
Greg went to say hello and help Mrs Hudson with the tea whilst John just sat there and shivered. It had been so very cold on their journey, and he had been stripped of all his insulated clothes in the cells.  
“Oh! Look at you, poor dear, here, Greg, grab that throw, and put it over the poor mite, he looks half frozen to death!” Mrs Hudson was a lady of delicate bearing, wearing her age well, and after hearing of John and Greg’s tales, she bundled them up in the warmest gear, made sure they ate, drank, and slept their fill, and sent them on their way.  
“You’ve got a long way to go, but follow the northern lights until you see a steaming oasis, there’s a person there who should help you. If you’re polite.”

After they had thanked Mrs Hudson, they bounded over the snow and over the border to Finland, all the while following the northern lights and looking out for steam, or an oasis in the distance.  
It was more than a shock when they finally found it. For who was waiting there but Mycroft Holmes!  
“Yes yes, come along” the man huffed as they got close, before stomping back into the small dwelling by the side of the natural spring.  
John was shocked into acquiescence, and followed, immediately hit with a wall of heat as he crossed the threshold.  
“Do take off those layers. And you, Detective Inspector, there is ice in the far corner to keep you cool, or if you prefer it, there are carrots outside in the small shelter.” The house was heated by the spring making it unbearably hot, but Mycroft seemed not to notice, nor did he seem to notice the goldfish swimming on every available water source. It was, by far, the most surreal part of John’s epic journey.

  
“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” was John’s first question after Greg had taken himself outside, which might as well have been off the edge of existence from Mycroft’s view.  
“Well someone had to keep an eye on Sherlock.” Came the bland reply.  
John could feel his anger seeping into the air, heating it further. “But you didn’t believe me! You thought he was checking out caves! And now you’re going to swoop in and save him? After I spent so long looking?”  
Mycroft sneered. “Oh come now John, no need for these petty hysterics. We all want the same thing. I was just more... expedient in my methods. Now, listen carefully.  Moriarty’s palace is over the hill by the bush of berries. You need to sneak in whilst Moriarty and his pet Adler are canvassing the hills to the east for new recruits, and get Sherlock out of there by any means. I don’t care how you do it, just as long as he’s no longer in Moriarty’s hands. Questions?”  
John only had one. “Who is this Moriarty? I thought Sherlock was kidnapped by the pale lady and the snow king”  
The sigh he received in return was not promising. “Oh little dumb John Watson. Moriarty _is_ the Snow King, and the Pale Lady, his puppet Irene Adler. A most dangerous man on all accounts. His power would be far too great to go unchecked with the mirror intact and in his possession, hence why you must get Sherlock out of there before he completes it. It’s all a grand puzzle to my brother, he does not see how his actions have far reaching consequences that he would be wise not to ignore. Now quickly, we mustn’t waste any more time”

  
John needed no more encouragement, now he finally understood what was going on. “Come on Greg! Sherlock’s in infinitely more trouble than we thought!” he ran out of the heated house, shoddily donning layers as he went, before skidding to a halt as Greg bounded around the corner, half a carrot still dangling between his lips. Then they were off. Mycroft, standing in the doorway, wondering if they truly were the best option to extract Sherlock from the most exciting puzzle he’d ever solve. He watched as they got further and further away until the snow swallowed their silhouettes, and then descended back into the warm to make arrangements and counter strikes against the forces of evil that were after his family.


	6. The Sixth Story: What Took Place in the Palace of the Snow King, and what Happened Afterward

 The Snow King’s palace was huge, and terrifying, and John was not exactly sure how he was supposed to break in to get Sherlock out, but squaring his shoulders, he knew he was going to have a damn hard go of it and that was that.  
He marched up to the side of the palace, ignoring the giant snow-flakes that danced around him in shapes he knew no real snowflake could ever make. There were hissing snakes, bears, and giant bees, they were the last outposts of the Snow King, defending his territory against outsiders like John, all huge and terrible and alive. But John ignored them, until he couldn’t any more, and then, he warmed his hands with his breath and touched them until they melted with the most terrible shrieks and death rattles. But still John marched on.

Soon enough he found himself staring at a long frozen pool, just inside the Snow King’s palace. Everything in the place was ice. The walls, the ceilings, all blocks of unappealing ice. John had never felt so cold in his life. It sapped all the energy out of him, and he knew he shouldn’t, but the pull of sleep felt so strong. Maybe, he thought drowsily, taking a step or two, maybe I could just rest my eyes for a second, and then I’ll find Sherlock. And so he sat down by an ice column, and from the distance he could hear singing, of sorts, although he could not tell what was being said. And the last thing he heard before he fell asleep was the sound of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer.

 

* * *

Sherlock had not once thought about John or Mycroft or even the Pale Lady in his pursuit to finish collecting and arranging the mirror pieces. The sliver he had fashioned into an eyeglass affected him most thoroughly, and he was having the best fun he’d had the entirety of his life. He did not feel the cold that was killing him, nor the myriad of tiny cuts the shards gave him as the rearranged them once again. Nothing mattered except the mirror, nothing mattered except to prove he could do it. So when the Snow King came to visit him one day, as he was wont to do, Sherlock took no notice. He had not finished the mirror yet, so nothing the Moriarty said to him would be of any consequence. Except, the Snow King brought him a present. An incentive.

“Looook Sherly~” Moriarty said in his sing-song voice “your old friend has come to say hello!” Sherlock barely glanced up. Whatever it was it didn’t matter. Even when a pair of familiar knees were put in his field of view, attached to a boy, shivering so badly it was like he was having a seizure.  
“Awwwww” Moriarty said, mock-sadly “looks like Sherlock doesn’t care for you, Jonny boy! Oh well. If you can’t convince him to care, I have no use for you. Might as well kill you where you stand.” The Snow King sighed, like it was a major disappointment, and not his plan all along.

John was in a bad way. It was so cold he knew he was slowly dying. And Sherlock was right there, but didn’t even look at him. “Sher-” he coughed, finding his voice “Sherlock. Sherlock, it’s me. John. John Watson from across the window boxes. Sherlock, please. Look at me. Or nod your head. Tell me you can hear me. Please Sherlock. Just. Do this. For me. One small miracle. For me.”

There was a pause, where John thought his friend was going to make eye contact, but the moment was broken by the Snow Queen. “Weeelll not that this hasn’t been fascinating. But time’s up. Your speech didn’t work. Looks like your journey was all for nothing. Game over.” The Snow King then touched John’s cheek, and the blonde boy felt even colder, shivering so hard he crashed onto the floor instantaneously. Hair just brushing the slivers of mirror splayed out for Sherlock’s perusal.  
“Hmm. It’ll be a slow death, but oh well. Enjoy the last few minutes of your life, John Watson. I have another Holmes to freeze out.”

And with that, Moriarty sauntered out of the room

* * *

Sherlock frowned. There was an odd buzzing coming from in front of him. And the top most parts of his puzzle were covered in tiny strands of sunlight. He went to brush them off, to have his view unobstructed, but as soon as he tried, his hand brushed something. It was warm. He frowned again as he tried to remember what warmth meant. He could feel it leaching from his fingers, and he knew that was wrong, but he didn’t know why. This was a puzzle that was time sensitive. He could afford to work it out and then go back to the mirror, couldn’t he? After all, the mirror would still be there, but the mystery of what the warm was, was already fading through his hand.

Mind made up, Sherlock looked up at where the warmth had been coming from. Oh. It was a body. His brain was telling him he knew this body. This sense of familiarity was exceedingly strong. Sherlock thought, that maybe if he could see its face, then maybe he would know who it was. He reached out a tentative hand to clasp the shoulder presented to him and gasped at the warmth that tingled under his fingertips. He didn’t know a body could _be_ so warm. Slowly he pushed the shoulder towards the floor, rolling the body onto its back, all the while, awareness crowding at the edges if his consciousness, alarm growing without a coherent reason at the back of his head.

He could feel the shoulder he was still grasping was shaking badly. That was Not Good, he knew for some reason. There was something he should do, to prevent the body in front of him losing all the warmth it contained forever. A fate, he knew instinctively would be an awful thing to happen, even if he didn’t understand why, as the cold was wonderful. Sherlock looked around for something to cover it with, but the only thing in the room was himself and the body.

So Sherlock abandoned the mirror for the first time since he arrived and curled himself around the body. And as the heat sank into his skin, Sherlock’s mind whirred in a frenzy. The body had a name. It did not begin with M. He remembered farthings glowing red, and smoke. He remembered- he remembered---

A shaking hand rose, jerking with the force of the cold and fell limply across his face. The body was awake, barely. It wanted something. It rose again to fall across his eyes, smudging the glass sliver, and repeated the process several times, before curling weakly around the wire frame and pulling.

The glass cut john’s hand, but he did not relent. And soon the warmth curled around it and Sherlock’s glass sliver crumbled to dust.

Sherlock blinked. What was he doing on the floor? It was so cold. And John! Oh john. When did we get here? Why are you shivering so? John gestured to the window, where Sherlock could see a bush of red berries and an anxious reindeer waiting.

Sherlock looked back at John. “Quite an adventure you’ve had. But yes, I agree, time to go home.”

 


End file.
